Andrew Hamlin's sequence reads like a notebook kept through March, mostly from the seat of a bus. Each tiny poem catches one passing moment: a raven straining for half an apple, a fish watching a storm from its bowl, a ferry dwarfed by a cargo barge, a jackhammer cutting into morning dew. Ordinary scenes sit beside odd, funny ones, and the speaker seems content simply to notice.
Under the humor, quieter worries surface. One poem wonders whether even "wasted time" will comfort the speaker at death. Another mentions someone who won't be vaccinated, and the last imagines masks stacked in a cupboard under thick dust. These details suggest a time of illness and caution, though the poems never say so outright. The closing image hints that the fear will fade into something forgotten.
The mood is wry, watchful, and gently melancholy. The speaker doesn't solve anything; he pays attention, and the attention itself becomes a kind of comfort.